The Invitation
by Aobaru
Summary: Invited to a ball by a Lord, the Dursley family drags nine-year-old Harry along as servant, not realizing that "Lord Malfoy" has a hidden agenda. Rated T, as of now, for mild violence, mild language, and child abuse.
1. Introduction

"The Invitation"

_by_

Aobaru

_Co-authored by_

Don't Riddle the Riddler (Chapters One, Two, & Three)

_Enter, stranger, but take heed__  
__Of what awaits the sin of greed . . ._


	2. Petrificus Totalus

_**Authors' Notes**_

_DRTR: _Over three thousand words for chapter one! Woot! We're doing good! My friend Aobaru and I are writing this jointly. The bewitched spell we used on Harry is from canon, and it puts the target person into a deep sleep; the target does not breathe while they are under the spell.

_Aobaru: _Speaking of canon, this story will probably _not _be canon. At all. Enjoy, and please review!

**Chapter One: **_**Petrificus Totalus**_

My name is Harry Potter, and I have been living at my Aunt and Uncle's house ever since I could remember. Although it may seem nice of them to take me in, in reality they make me do all sorts of dreadful chores; if I do them wrong, they physically punish me. I'm not talking about a spanking here or there, but rather a heavy pan to the head or a thrashing with my Uncle's favorite belt.

One day, while I was returning from taking out the trash, my Uncle Vernon noticed the mail had come and wobbled towards the front door. He grabbed the post from the floor and waddled back to the kitchen, all the while sifting through the individual letters.

"Junk, junk, bills. . . _what_?" I saw Uncle quickly halt; his hands were shaking as he stared at what looked like a beautiful parchment letter. "P. . . P. . . Petunia!" Uncle Vernon stuttered. "Come, quick!"

My ugly, horse-faced Aunt Petunia popped out of the living room to see what her husband needed. "What? What is it, Vernon?" she barked.

"We've been invited to a. . . to a. . . _ball_!" replied Uncle Vernon.

"A _ball_?" exclaimed Aunt Petunia as she nearly swooned in delight. "Who's hosting it?"

"Err. . . um. . ." - Uncle Vernon fumbled with the paper as it slipped in his sweaty palms - "Ah! 'Lord Lucius Malfoy'! A _Lord_! But I don't remember any Lords called 'Malfoy'. . . ."

"It doesn't matter who they are, it just matters that they realize what upstanding people we are," Aunt Petunia sniffed with a smug look on her face. I could see on her face she couldn't wait to tell the neighbors and see the envious looks in their eyes; after all, nothing could ever top being invited to a ball - and by a _Lord_, no less!

Suddenly Petunia gasped, and the color drained from her face as she glanced wildly in my direction. "But what will we do with _him? _We can't take him with as part of the family, Vernon! I absolutely refuse to!"

Uncle Vernon scrunched up his face, as though it hurt him to think—it probably did, actually—and then his face lit up like a fleshy Christmas tree. "Why, wouldn't it look odd if we didn't have a servant or two? If we take this one along, he'll carry our coats and will bend for our every command, right boy?" He aimed the last part at me, and I nodded quickly even though I wanted so badly to cry. It was bad enough working like a slave in the Dursley's house, but the idea of having others see how badly they treated me made me hang my head in shame; if I looked up, my relatives would see the tears in my eyes, and crying would earn me another beating.

The next several days passed slowly, with the ball on everyone's mind, even mine. Aunt Petunia had wasted no time in inviting all the women she knew over for a tea party, and bragged profusely about her invitation as I served refreshments to the envious women. She, Uncle Vernon, and my cousin Dudley bought new formal clothing made from the best materials, and, after much consideration, took me to a local store and bought me plain - although fitting - clothing to wear. It wouldn't do for a "servant" of theirs to look like a street rat; still, they punished me for costing them money they could have used elsewhere. Aunt Petunia forced me to scrub floors with chemicals that made my hands burn horribly, as I wasn't allowed the use of gloves; Uncle Vernon took his cane to me every night for insults he imagined I had uttered.

The day of the ball arrived: I woke up, made breakfast as usual, and hurried to do my many chores, hoping that, if I did well, the Dursleys wouldn't humiliate me as much as I knew they would. Of course, as expected, when the hour to leave for the ball arrived, they shoved my "new" clothes in my face and yelled at me to go to my cupboard to change. Reluctant, but knowing I had no choice, I trudged to the base of the stairs and into my little "room." Glancing into the small, broken mirror that I hung from the door, I almost began to sob. _What did I do to deserve this? _I thought as I took off my sweatshirt, showing my chest. I gazed upon the many bruises given to me by my Aunt, Uncle, and cousin. Yes, even my nine-year-old cousin had joined in on his parents' abuse of me; sometimes he would hide behind a door while I walked by and tackle me to the wood floor, leaving a nasty bump on my head; another time he almost pushed me down the stairs - he backed off when he saw his dear Mummy ascending.

I continued to stare at the bruises, and tears began to well up in my eyes and spill down my cheeks before I could stop them._ I want them to leave, to go away so I'm not so viciously reminded of how I am hated and loathed in my own family's home. Please! _Before my eyes, the bruises slowly faded until they were almost gone. This does not bother me in the least; for the past few years, I've discovered that if I concentrate intensely on something I want to happen, it usually does. I was now satisfied, but I would need to make sure that Uncle Vernon didn't see my healed body for a few days; if he thought my freakishness had healed me, there would be hell to pay. Hurriedly pulling on my fitted clothes, I bolted out of my cupboard as I heard my Uncle bellowing for me to hurry up. As I climbed into the covered car seat, I stared at Number Four, Privet Drive, not knowing this would be the last time I would ever see it again.

As Uncle Vernon sped down the highway towards the address given in the ornate invitation he had received a few days prior, he laid down some ground rules for me.

"Now you listen here, boy," he barked through his unbelievably thick mustache. "When we arrive at Lord Malfoy's manor, you _will _be our servant. You will listen to my, Petunia's, and Dudley's every command - _or else_. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head quickly.

"And Harry—" Uncle Vernon turned around to face me at a stoplight. "There will be no _funny _business_. _The last thing we want is to be embarrassed by your. . . _freakishness_. It's always good to have friends in high places, yes, it certainly is. You won't ruin this golden opportunity for us, now will you?"

I shook my head no, and a satisfied look entered Uncle Vernon's eyes. He knew that I knew what would happen to me if I disobeyed. I myself was far too frightened to outright do it, but how would I keep my uncontrollable "freakishness" doing something? My wounds healed when I asked it, but what if I couldn't keep it from "helping" me if it thought I needed it?

"Well, now that that's settled," Uncle Vernon said loudly, glancing again at the invitation. "We shall be arriving soon. Dudley, remember: you are to be on your best behavior; and if they have children, make sure you don't alienate them."

Because I was sitting beside Dudley, I could see the boy was confused by his father using the word "alienate," so I whispered, "He means, don't bully them." Dudley's face lost its confused look, and, for my trouble, I got such a hard kick in the shin that my leg was throbbing minutes later when we pulled into a long, dimly lit stone driveway that led to the biggest house that I had ever seen. Sure, I'd seen cathedrals and other large buildings, but this old manor had the air of being solely used as a residence. Large, spiraled towers rose gracefully into the air, and a man was standing outside, beside the drive, as if he was waiting for us. Strangely, there didn't seem to be anyone outside except the one person. I thought, _if there is going to be a ball, shouldn't there be more servants and guests around?_ I shrugged in my head; after all, what did I know about high-class living?

Uncle Vernon pulled up to the man, and the family climbed out of the car. Aunt Petunia put on her best smile, and greeted the plain looking man.

"Chauffeur, we are the Dursleys, and we have been invited to the ball." Petunia flashed the Malfoys' invitation, and, when she saw no change in the man's expression, she stuffed the invitation into her pocket and instead held out her car keys.

"Be sure not to damage it." She said, quite snobbishly. To absolve the rudeness of her words, she reached into her purse and attempted to place some tip money in the man's short pocket, but the man stepped away. Raking over the family of four, his eyes landed on me, although I was half-behind Dudley.

"_Ahem. _I have been informed by the Master that I am to escort the Young Master Potter into the house; he did not say anything about anyone else," the man sniffed, obviously looking down his nose at the Dursleys.

Aunt Petunia's face was that of abject horror, as though a prized possession had been bashed repeatedly in front of her; Uncle Vernon looked like he had swallowed a lemon; and Dudley's double chins were hanging beneath his wide-open mouth. And in the midst of it all, I did not know what to think, say, or do. Nervous of what I would find, I looked timidly up at my uncle; my eyes met a sullen, red face - Uncle Vernon looked as though he was going to either vomit or throttle the man who had the audacity to deny him something.

"Come, Mr. Potter," the man said in a monotone, and, reaching around Dudley's considerable girth, he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me in the direction of the manor. Stopping suddenly, he turned around and said in a drawling voice, "As for you three. . . even though you would normally be considered trespassers, because you are Mr. Potter's guardians, we can make an exception. Stay here, and, please. . . _don't_ _touch anything_. Now, come, Mr. Potter, you first. Master Malfoy would like to see you immediately."

I resisted, digging my heels into the gravel driveway. There was no way that I was going with a strange man into a strange house; God only knew what he was going to do to me! And if I didn't protest. . . I shuddered to think of what my punishments would be when I got home.

"Sir, let me go! I don't want to leave my family!" It took everything within me to say that I wanted to stay with the Dursleys, but I managed it with a straight face. The man stared at me for a moment before suddenly letting me go, and stepping back. "I see I have no other choice. Come Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, Mr. Potter, young Mr. Dursley. Please do follow me inside where you will meet the Master. He will be fine with all of you there, I assume." The man turned sharply on his heel, and began walking up the stairs and to the house, where he stopped to hold the door open for us.

Uncle Vernon stomped past me, still red-faced with his mustache quivering dangerously, with Dudley following behind like a lost, fat puppy. Aunt Petunia brought up the rear of the group, and grabbed me by the back of the neck, digging her long nails painfully into me. "You cursed little brat! If you say anything about _anything_, I'll cut out your tongue myself when we get home. Understand?" Wincing at the pain and poisonous tone of voice, I nodded; I stumbled when she yanked me forward to march in front of her into the manor, bypassing the man without a word.

My eyes widened as I stumbled into the beautiful grand foyer right from the front door; the large, open hall was intricately decorated with a large array of vases, golden statues, and paintings. I could have sworn the pictures moved a bit, but when I stared really hard at them, they didn't. I bit my lip so I wouldn't say anything; this kind of stuff always got me in trouble with my relatives. _Pictures don't move! _Every time I would talk about something abnormally, I'd sure be sorry later on. A large window on the ceiling of the room let in the fading daylight, making the various treasures in the room seem to sparkle. The Dursleys walked slowly behind me, gazing at every single treasure the room seemed to hold; I tried to keep up with the strange man.

"_Harry_. . ." A voice seemingly whispered in my ear; it sounded faint, like it had come from somewhere farther away.

"What is it, Dudley?" I whispered back, turning around. Dudley looked up at me from what looked like a seventeenth-century vase.

"What the hell are you talking about? I haven't said anything to you!" he said loudly, his face red with rage; he ignored me to continue to drool over the vase. One thing the Dursleys had in common was their lust for expensive things, and Dudley was no exception. I was sighing and shuffling back towards the man when my forehead began to itch, and then suddenly a wave of pain flowed throughout my head. I stumbled before sinking to my knees, and clutched my head in a futile effort to stop the pain; apparently, I had let out a choked moan as well, for the man came swiftly, knelt beside me, and shouted, "Are you all right, Mister Potter?"

"Don't worry about him. He had a head injury as a child and often uses it as an excuse for attention; this thing happens all the time!" Aunt Petunia huffed, stooping low enough to roll her eyes at the concern the man was showing to her "freak" nephew.

I nodded, gritting my teeth against the pain, then heard the high, whispering voice again. "_Harry_."

Unlike before, this time the voice seemed to be coming from somewhere: the far side of the foyer. _I have to find it. I have to!_ Stumbling to my feet, I ran as fast as I could towards the voice. Distantly, I could hear Uncle Vernon bellowing for me to stop, and, out of the corner of my eye, saw the man reach out to me. I subconsciously twisted to avoid his outstretched hand. I had to get to the voice before they caught me, because somehow I knew I would never get the chance to find it again.

"_Harry_. . . _Harry! HARRY!_" The strange voice seemed to get louder as I got closer, but maybe it was just my imagination, because it still seemed to stay a whisper.

At the end of the foyer, there was a large, arched door; to the right of this was a living area, complete with two ornate sofas, a coffee table, a bookcase, a fireplace, and a large, scarlet chair. To the left of the door was a staircase that I guessed led to the second floor of the manor. But these things didn't interest me; it was what stood between the door and the staircase that was drawing me in: a large, white pedestal, on the top of which rested an book. I rushed towards the book and tried to grab it from the pedestal, hoping the voice would stop.

As soon as my hands came within six inches of the book, my eyes widened in shock as a very powerful, very _wrong _feeling swept over me and, oddly enough, _into _me. I seemed to slam into something invisible, and I heard - more than felt - both of my wrists snap. I was in agony, and I slumped to the floor, cradling my wrists as gently as I could to my chest to protect them. Vaguely, through the haze of pain, I could hear voices. My Uncle was screaming at me to get up, while my Aunt apologized profusely again and again, promising that I would be severely punished when we got home. These voices, as loud as they were, couldn't drown out the voice still whispering in my ear, even though I couldn't understand what it was saying.

Gentle hands touched my shoulders and tried to get me to turn so my wrists were exposed, but I curled up in a ball. I didn't trust anyone as far as I could throw them. Vaguely, I could hear my Aunt and Uncle quiet down, and eventually go silent, and I knew, just _knew_, that I was going to die. The only time they would ever stop harping on me was to beat me; but this time, something was different. I cracked my eyes open and saw a very tall man with the palest skin and most beautiful flow of white blonde hair I had ever seen.

He was speaking quietly with the man who had escorted us inside, but his ice blue eyes were locked firmly on me. I knew almost instinctively who this man was: Lord Lucius Malfoy. For the first time in my life, I felt intimidated. Fear was a regular thing in the Dursley household, but I had known my relatives for such a long time that I already knew what they would and would not do to me; this man, however, seemed to be capable of anything.

Suddenly, Lord Malfoy's head whipped around to stare at the man who had brought us inside, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Nodding once, presumably to a question, I saw Lord Malfoy pull a long, thin stick out of his pocket and discreetly—but quickly—shoot pale, blue beams of light into each of my relatives, causing them to freeze up and fall over heavily. My breath caught in my chest.

_What is he? _I wondered.

I didn't seem to be able to move, even though I knew that he hadn't done anything to me. He then turned to me, and though I tried desperately to look as small and nonthreatening as possible, his stick lifted in my direction. His lips moved slightly, but this time there was no beam of light; suddenly, I felt heavy and sleepy, and, as my eyes drifted shut, I saw his thin lips quirk in a semblance of a smile.


	3. Dormio

**Chapter Two: **_**Dormio**_

When the Dursleys and Harry Potter arrived at the Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, Victor knew Master Malfoy's plan was working perfectly.

Victor had done some research into the Dursleys (he had used connections at the Ministry; as a Squib he couldn't really do it himself): the father, Vernon, was an arrogant, working-class man who Victor knew would take the invitation as a well-deserved recognition of what a great citizen and businessman he was; the mother, Petunia, was a renowned gossiper in the town, and Victor knew that she wouldn't be able to help herself from rubbing it in people's faces that they had been invited to a ball; Vernon and Petunia's son, Dudley, was an overweight, bullying, spoiled child who had a mean streak in him a mile wide.

But young Harry Potter, he was different. According to his "research," Harry lived a life of constant physical and emotional abuse; his relatives all seemed to have a sadistic streak in them, and dealing out physical and emotional abuse didn't faze them a bit.

But—as the whole of the wizarding world knew—Harry Potter was "The Boy Who Lived." That infamous night, the Dark Lord was gravely injured, and was forced into hiding: he was neither heard from nor seen since—or so everyone thought.

There had been recent reports of sightings of the Dark Lord, and that is what prompted Master Malfoy to go through the trouble of tracking Harry Potter down and having him brought here: he wanted to see just how Dumbledore was raising Potter. It came to Mr. Malfoy's surprise, and, admittedly, pleasure, that Dumbledore had dumped the boy off at his relatives. This made their jobs easier. It just so happened that Harry's only living relatives were the most arrogant, superficial Muggles Victor had ever seen; they fell into Master Malfoy's plan perfectly.

He knew that they wouldn't be able to resist an invitation to a ball by a "Lord"; and he knew they couldn't resist bringing along their nephew to torment him as their "slave."

But Victor underestimated the Dursleys' arrogance: the first thing they did upon arrival was shove the keys to their vehicle in Victor's face, calling him a "chauffeur"—whatever that was. There was also a slight complication when Harry refused to enter the manor unless he was with his relatives, but a quick change of plans fixed that.

And, as expected, the Dark Lord's diary proved irresistible to Harry: he'd barely walked in the room before he collapsed from the dark energy emitting from the diary.

"Are you all right, Mister Potter?" Victor had said, faking compassion. Harry nodded, managed to stumble to his feet, and bolted to where the Dark Lord's diary lay.

The ward Master Malfoy placed around the diary worked impeccably: when Harry reached out to grab the book, his wrists snapped and he fell to the floor, moaning in pain.

It was then Master Malfoy made his entrance.

"GET UP, BOY! I SAID, GET UP!" Vernon Dursley had screamed, eyeing Master Malfoy.

Harry's Aunt Petunia glanced at Victor and Master Malfoy and said, "I'm so sorry for my servant's behavior. I assure you both that he will be severely punished when he gets home."

Master Malfoy ignored them, then pretended to ask Victor a question, all the while glancing down at Harry—all this was to catch the Dursleys off-guard. He then turned his head to look at Victor, who asked: "Now?"

Master Malfoy nodded, pulled out his wand, and, while still staring into Victor's face, whispered, "_Petrificus Totalus_"—and the Dursleys fell to the floor.

Now that the Muggles were taken care of, Master Malfoy turned to the fearful Harry Potter who seemed to be trying to curl himself into a ball. He pointed his wand at him and muttered, "_Dormio_"—Harry was asleep within seconds.

Master Malfoy turned to Victor, looking relieved. "Now, we wait."

* * *

I woke with a start, gasping pitifully for air as I gripped my chest, as though it would help me. I glanced around nervously, the memories of what happened filling my mind. My eyes fell on my arms, or, more importantly, my wrists. They were healed, but it wasn't that surprising—"it" must have taken the initiative this time, to heal me so quickly.

I was lying in a large, comfortable bed in a simply decorated, beige room. The room wasn't nearly as nice as the foyer was, but to me it was wonderful; as I sat up, I couldn't help but smile.

_A bed, a real bed! For me! _I thought.

Suddenly, I was brought back to reality by a horrible thought: this wasn't my bed, or my room. I had no idea what would happen to me, or even what Lord Malfoy would want me for.

Smoothing my hands over the beautiful duvet, I was interrupted from my thoughts when Lord Malfoy suddenly strode through the door, closing it gently behind him. He was still in his formal wear, and his—what looked like—leather boots were ridiculously loud on the wooden floors. With a flick of his wrist, a stick was in his hand. A few murmured words later and a plush armchair was sitting innocently beside the bed. I knew I must have been imitating a guppy the way my mouth was hanging open, but I couldn't seem to help myself. _This man has "it" too!_

As he sat himself regally upon the chair, I dropped my eyes to stare at my hands, tracing a few small scars with my fingertips. Lord Malfoy cleared his throat quietly.

"I am Lord Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, Head of the Malfoy Family, and Head of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts."

I didn't want to look at him, but I knew it would be terribly rude of me to introduce myself to the bed, so, steeling myself, I looked into his ice blue eyes. "I'm Harry Potter, sir. I'm Aunt Petunia's nephew. I don't have any fancy titles. Sir."

He continued to stare into me. "Yes, yes. I know who _you _are, Mr. Potter." He reached his hand out towards me: I flinched at first, but something inside me seemed to trust him. _Maybe because we both have "it" _. . .

Master Malfoy lifted the dark hair off of my forehead, and, gazing at the lightning-bolt-shaped mark there, he smiled. "And . . . there's the scar. So the rumors _are _true." He gave a sarcastic smile, but then his expression turned quite grave; I opened my mouth to ask a question, but, as I did, he snapped at me: "You will be silent boy, or you will wish you were never born."

I looked down again and, with no regard for politeness, said under my breath, "I already wish that."

"What was that? Please don't mumble."

I cleared my throat and looked up into his silvery eyes. "I said, sir, that I already wish that." It only took him a second for him to realize what I was talking about, and I knew he could read the shame in my eyes as I admitted such a terrible thing.

He was silent for a while and studied me, taking in how I was curling and uncurling my hands in the beautiful duvet before smoothing it back out, and how I had scooted away from him a bit when he had told me not to mumble.

_It's not my fault_, I thought. _He was going to hit me, or use his "it" on me._

Finally, Master Malfoy broke the silence. "What do you know, Mr. Potter, about magic?"

I flinched at the word, while at the same time cursing him in my mind for using it. "I . . . I don't know what you're talking about, sir."

"Of course you do, silly child. Things happen—strange things—when you're mad or angry or upset. That's your magic acting up, doing things that you subconsciously want to do, but can't."

I would not answer any of his ridiculous questions; Aunt Petunia had said that if I told anyone, the government would come and take me away to perform experiments on me. Suddenly becoming very angry with this man for even _trying _to get me to admit to my freakishness—even if he had it, too—my head shot up and I couldn't refrain from yelling:

"There is no such thing as magic!"

He suddenly stood up, vanishing his chair with a flick of his stick and towering over me. I fought down the urge to whimper, and instead tried to glare defiantly at him.

"You will have to learn to control your temper, Mr. Potter. I will come back when you have calmed down, and not before then. Do _not_ break any of my possessions, or I'll make sure I break _you_."

He turned, with his robe flowing behind him, and walked ceremoniously to the door, shutting it gently behind him. I could hear the lock on the other side click, and the door handle glowed a soft blue.

I had been locked in.


	4. Obliviate

**Author's Notes**

_Aobaru_: This chapter was written exclusively by me and is all told from Lucius' POV. I foreshadow a few things and also reveal some of Lucius' intentions—for Harry and other stuff. There are also many spells introduced in this chapter: don't worry, most of them aren't canon, but are instead a product of an online Latin dictionary.

In any case, please review and tell me what you think.

**Chapter Three: **_**Obliviate**_

Lucius Malfoy was angry.

Walking through a hallway—his wand in hand—he pondered on his scheme, which, at the moment, wasn't going too well. He had planned everything perfectly: from getting Victor to lure the extremely superficial Dursleys to the manor, to covertly Petrifying the Dursleys to get them out of the way, to using the Sleeping Charm on Harry to make him cooperate.

However, upon his arrival at the room where he was keeping Harry, Lucius found him to be everything _but _cooperative. When Lucius had asked him about magic, he could tell that Harry knew what he was talking about; however, he didn't think Harry had heard it called "magic" before. Harry had denied everything, of course, but the aspiring Legilimens in Lucius told him Harry was lying. But that was okay: Lucius didn't expect the first attempt at extracting information from Harry Potter to go smoothly—that's where the next stage of Lucius' plan came in.

But first, it was time to get rid of a minor annoyance.

Lucius turned a corner and headed down a short hallway to his study. He opened the wooden door, sat in the chair behind his desk, and—with a flick of his wand—lit the fireplace. He conjured a glass and a bottle of wine and poured himself a drink. After taking a few sips, he sat the glass down and took out his wand.

"_Signum roseus_," Lucius spoke.

Since his butler, Victor, was a Squib, Lucius could not communicate with him by means of magic. So, one day, on a trip to Borgin & Burkes, Lucius bought a Signaling Bracelet—a bracelet that vibrates and glows different colors when certain charms are spoken. When Victor wore the bracelet, all Lucius had to do was speak the color charm for wherever he was—red for his study, yellow for the foyer, violet for his bedroom, etc.—and Victor would come immediately.

Sure enough, within a couple of minutes Victor strode through the study door. Lucius cleared his throat.

"You called, Master?" said Victor.

"Yes, Victor," replied Lucius. "It is time for us to be rid of the Dursleys; they are such an irritating distraction to my plan."

Victor nodded. "Yes, Master Malfoy. Would you like me to fetch them? They should have regained most of their abilities by now."

Lucius smiled. "Yes, yes. And bring the papers as well. I would like to make this as brief as possible."

"As you wish, Master Malfoy—I shall return shortly." Victor left the room.

Lucius decided to pass the time sipping his wine—less than ten minutes later, Victor returned with the slightly dazed Dursleys and some papers, which he placed on Lucius' desk. Lucius thanked Victor and excused him; Victor left, shutting the door behind him.

The Dursleys were presently swaying around, confused, where they stood; Lucius decided to summon three chairs for them and then beckoned them to sit—all three did, quite slowly.

Petunia Dursley looked sullen, and, next to her, her son Dudley appeared to have drifted off to sleep. It was Vernon—who was now slumped back in his chair—who spoke first, quite groggily. "What . . . what are you doing? What did you do to us?"

Lucius grinned. "Why, I Petrified you, of course, as a precaution. Magic, you know. But _you_"—he glanced at Petunia—"already know all about magic, don't you, Mrs. Dursley? Or, I should say, Mrs. Petunia Evans—your sister Lily was Harry's mother. Yes, I can read the surprised looks on your faces. You all are wondering how I know all this, correct? Well, I might as well tell you."

_It's not like you're going to remember tonight anyway_, thought Lucius.

Lucius opened the third drawer from the bottom on the left side of his desk and pulled out a large yellow envelope; he untied the knot that held it closed and pulled out its contents. With another flick of his wand, Lucius' glasses were in hand; he put them on self-importantly and began to flip through the papers.

"Let's see here, let's see . . . Ah! Yes, here we go. 'Ms. Lily Evans, student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for seven years, Gryffindor . . .'—I never did like Gryffindor," said Lucius, taking off his spectacles.

Petunia Dursley's mouth was agape—well, as agape as one's mouth could be when one was recovering from being Petrified. "But . . . _how_? How do you . . . know all this?"

"Connections at the Ministry, of course; I am quite the philanthropist. I can pull up any student's record with a snap of my fingers. It all comes with the money, I assure you—Oh, that's right, you wouldn't know"—he looked at Vernon now—"with your _paltry_ income."

"How . . . dare you!" said Vernon, who tried—and failed—to sit up. "I'll tear you limb from limb!"

"Perhaps," said Lucius, smiling, "in a couple of hours, when the Petrifying spell has worn off. However, by then, I shall be done with you—now, to business."

Lucius picked up the papers that Victor had retrieved for him off his desk and put his glasses back on. He looked over the papers for a moment, and then spoke to the Dursleys.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley . . . I've had my butler, Victor, retrieve these papers for me. I'm sure you are curious as to what they are, yes?"

Vernon was red in the face. "Just get on with it, please."

"Very well. It's quite simple: these papers give me guardianship of your nephew, Harry."

Petunia's face went completely pale. "G— Guardianship? But . . . why?"

"Frankly, I think it's in the boy's best interest. If he was with me, I could teach him the ways of magic. He would be well-fed and taken care of; although I'm not sure you really care about that."

Vernon raised his head in a cocky way. "Why, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Lucius smirked. "Oh, Mr. Dursley, we can talk plainly here; no one is listening. What I am alluding to is, of course, the fact that you regularly abuse your nephew."

The Dursleys sunk into their chairs. Lucius began again.

"Now, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, here is another interesting fact: I am just as influential in your world as I am in mine. The both of you are literally a call away from being arrested; child abuse and neglect are quite serious crimes, you know. And I'm sure young Harry has all the evidence on him."

Vernon and Petunia presently seemed to be at opposite ends of the spectrum: with every passing minute, Vernon grew redder and redder, while Petunia grew even paler. Neither spoke, but soon Lucius broke the silence.

"So, this is my proposition: you two sign these papers, and Harry stays with me. In return, I shall not go to the authorities concerning the travesties you all have committed against Harry. Is this acceptable?"

"But, why . . . do you want him?" Petunia said, with an inkling of worry in her voice.

"Ah, I see you are worried about breaking the deal you made with Dumbledore," said Lucius.

Petunia's eyes widened. "How— how did you know?" she shouted.

"Simple deduction. Why else would Harry be living with you—especially with your treatment of him—if there were not any benefit, however small, for him? And I am fully aware of the protection that blood relatives give, which is why I have opted for _guardianship_: that way, the protection will not end, but rather extend here—since he will, technically, still call your place home. Think of him staying here with me as . . . a permanent summer vacation. He will always still have a place to go home to, if he so chooses."

"And we can visit, if we want?" said Petunia.

Lucius smiled. "Anytime. Now"—he conjured a pen and picked up the guardianship papers—"do we have a deal? I'll need both of your signatures." He handed the pen to Petunia, who slowly reached up and took it. With a little effort, Petunia managed to sit up. Lucius laid the paper on the desk and faced it towards the Dursleys.

"Both of you, please read it carefully and sign at the bottom."

Petunia looked over the paper for a minute, and then slowly lifted her arm to the paper and signed. Petunia collapsed back into her chair and handed the pen to Vernon, who grunted as he sat up slowly. He looked the paper over for a while, and soon he too added his signature to the bottom.

Lucius was beaming. "Excellent!" he exclaimed as he flipped the paper around to face him. "Now, I sign . . . and there! All finished!"

The Dursleys seemed to be exhausted from sitting up. Lucius stood up from his chair. "Now, let me just get Victor, and he'll escort you home. . . ."

Instead, he made sure the Dursleys' eyes were closed before taking out his wand and shouting, "_Stupefy!_" Three red beams of light flashed and hit the Dursleys square in the chest; all three gasped as they were made unconscious.

Lucius stood there, breathing hard with his arm outstretched. He let his arm drop to his side and muttered, "_Signum roseus_."

_Now, the hard part_, thought Lucius.

* * *

Victor arrived about ten minutes after Lucius had summoned him. Presently, the Dursleys were still unconscious from Lucius' Stunning spell, and Lucius was sitting behind his desk, finishing his wine. When he saw Victor enter, Lucius sat his nearly-empty wine glass down.

"Everything went according to plan, Victor. Their memories are modified; they have forgotten they ever had Harry. They think he died in the 'crash' that killed his parents. Now"—Lucius finished off his wine—"take them home."

"Yes, Master Malfoy."

* * *

Lucius was walking in one of his many hallways, searching for a particular room.

_It's time for the next phase of my plan_, thought Lucius.

Harry Potter's reaction to the first Horcrux—the diary—had proven one of Lucius' theories: Voldemort had hidden part of himself inside of Harry. Lucius' other theory was that, presently, the Dark Lord was hiding somewhere in western Europe; he would of course, have no physical body, and as such would be difficult to track down—for a wizard. A house-elf, on the other hand, would have no problem finding such a dark energy, which is exactly why he sent Dobby off to find and capture Voldemort about two weeks ago. He expected Dobby to return soon, hopefully with Voldemort in tow.

In the meantime, Lucius had another theory he wanted to test: it involved another Horcrux. Lucius had come into possession of this Horcrux through a technicality—Lucius loved technicalities.

Rodolphus Lestrange was one of Voldemort's most trusted Death Eaters, so Lucius deduced that Rodolphus might have been given a Horcrux by Voldemort—like Lucius had been given one—and hidden it in his family's vault at Gringott's. Lucius' only problem was how to get into the vault: luckily for Lucius, Rodolphus' wife was Bellatrix Black, his wife Narcissa's sister. Bellatrix had marital right over the vault and as such could give ownership of it to whomever she wanted—and she did just that: right after she was married, she gave rights to the vault to Narcissa. Thus, Narcissa simply had to walk into Gringott's, take the Horcrux, and bring it home—and she had done just that earlier in the week.

Lucius finally reached his destination: a room underground he liked to call his "mini-vault". The vault had been charmed so that it could only be opened by Lucius or Narcissa's voice. Lucius descended the stairs that led to the vault and stepped in front of the large stone door.

"_Apertio_!"

Instantly, the door slowly creaked open, revealing a small room lit by many candles. Lucius stepped in.

The room was shaped squarely; lined around the perimeter were various treasures Lucius had no room for in the foyer, along with valuable books, wands, and a few bags of gold. However, what Lucius was looking for was not, at the moment, visible; Lucius had decided to use an extra precaution on the Horcrux: a Disillusionment Charm.

"_Appareo_."

At once, the Horcrux became visible on the shelf; Lucius grabbed it and exited the vault. He turned to the door, muttered "_Occludo_"—the door creaked shut—and ascended the stairs.

_Now, to bring Harry his gift._


	5. The Steal

**Chapter Four: The Steal**

**A/N**: Riddle has abandoned this project for whatever reason, and I have taken it on. In any case, please read and review.

This chapter is a prequel to Chapter Three.

* * *

_Enter, stranger, but take heed__  
__Of what awaits the sin of greed,__  
__For those who take, but do not earn,__  
__Must pay most dearly in their turn.__  
__So if you seek beneath our floors__  
__A treasure that was never yours,__  
__Thief, you have been warned, beware__  
__Of finding more than treasure there._

_

* * *

_

_Leave it to Lucius to make me do everything_, thought Narcissa as she exited Gringott's Bank. She had what she came for stuffed away safely in her bag.

At first, Narcissa had been confused when her husband asked her to run this "errand" for her. That is, until Lucius—the cunning snake that he is—explained it to her.

"But how will I get in?" Narcissa had asked.

Lucius grinned. "It's simple, my love. It's all to do with Wizarding Law. Your lovely brother-in-law Rodolphus is the legal executor of the entire Lestrange family assets, correct?"

Narcissa nodded. "Go on."

"_But_, according to Wizarding Law, if an executor is imprisoned, his or her rights are forfeited and passed on to the next-of-kin—in this case, his twin brother, who . . ."

". . . is also in prison."

"Yes, my dear! Now, in the event that there are no heirs apparent in the immediate family, the legal power is transferred to the _spouses_. Alas, poor Rodolphus' brother has no spouse, but, fortunately, Rodolphus himself does."

"Bella." Narcissa's eyes lit up for a moment, but then she remembered what Lucius had said before. "But . . . she's in Azkaban, too."

"Yes, and this is where it gets really complicated . . . and exciting." Lucius had an excited look on his face, like a seven-year-old given the key to the candy store. That is, if you consider legal loopholes to be the key to the candy store. "This archaic law just doesn't know when to stop. If neither the immediate family nor the immediate family's spouses are able to execute the assets, legal power falls to the spouses' immediate family. That means _you_."

"Wait . . . so I have control over the Lestrange's vault?"

"That you do, since all your other siblings are either excommunicated or imprisoned. And if _you _were to be imprisoned as well, the power would pass to _me_, as the immediate family's spouse's immediate family's spouse. Get it?"

"Sort of."

"Good. Now here's what I need you to do."

* * *

It had been simple enough to get in. Apparently, the goblins at Gringott's had heard Lucius' spiel as well, because they led her right to the Lestrange vault.

When they arrived Narcissa was shocked at what the goblins called "security". Guarding the vault was a large dragon, who currently appeared to be sleeping.

"Here we are, Ms. Black. Please stay with me." Narcissa didn't object.

The tiny creature placed its palm on the large stone door and it started to open slowly. "I'll be waiting out here. Please take all the time you need."

Narcissa nodded to the goblin and entered the damp, cavernous vault. As she entered, she could only stand in shock. There were piles of gold galleons as far as she could see, with various gems thrown in the mix. Propped on the wall were dusty, antique wands and spellbooks that were no doubt hundreds or even thousands of years old. A large Slytherin coat-of-arms adorned one section of wall. Finally, Narcissa found the small Hufflepuff coat-of-arms that Lucius had told her about.

_Unlike most pure-blooded families, the Lestranges have always been sorted into both Slytherin and Hufflepuff houses, though they often aren't too keen to admit it. When Hepzibah Smith, the last remaining descendant of Helga Hufflepuff, died, who better to guard her treasure than the Lestranges, who owned the most secure hiding spot in the world?_

Just as Lucius had told her, the treasure lay beneath the small coat-of-arms. Narcissa stuffed it in her sack and left the room.


	6. Alohomora

_Author's Note_: Sorry for taking so long to write this chapter. This chapter introduces Draco and takes place after Chapter Three. Please review!

**Chapter Five: **_**Alohomora**_

Draco Malfoy hated being Lucius' son. Lucius regularly ignored Draco and his mother, Narcissa—apparently, being an "evil mastermind", as Draco liked to call him, left no time for family. When his father was not at some charity event for the Ministry (Draco gave him credit—he was quite the philanthropist), he often spent the majority of his day holed up in his study; he spent more time with the manservant, Victor, than he did with his own son.

He treated Draco as if he were an unfortunate byproduct of some long-past intercourse with Narcissa, and he fulfilled only the basic duties of parenting: shelter, food, and clothing. That is not to say, however, that he lacked: his shelter was a grand, three-story manor; his food was supplied by an a team of gourmet house-elf chefs three times daily; and he wore only the finest clothes (his father contracted a private tailor).

But, Draco often wished he could trade in all his extravagancies for a normal relationship with his father. He was, however, very close with his mother Narcissa, who had been teaching him in the ways of magic since age four. Draco spent most of his time secluded in his enormous bedroom, making the various inanimate objects residing there move with a flick of his wand. He loved making his hand-carved wooden wizards and witches battle each other; most of the time the witches won.

Draco also liked to play dress-up. His mother had an old chest full of clothes from her childhood, and, often, when she wasn't around, he would steal a blouse or a skirt or some shoes. However, his favorite item was his mother's old hair bows. He loved to put them in his hair (his mother kept his light blonde hair shoulder-length), and he always felt so pretty when he was wearing one.

Draco had just finished playing with his wizards and was admiring the large yellow bow in his hair when suddenly he heard footsteps descending the nearby stairs leading to the ground floor. Panicking, he quickly took the bow out, gathered up the pile of his mother's clothing on the floor, and dashed out the door to his mother's room.

Although his parents had a joint bedroom on the third floor, they each had their own bedrooms on the second floor as well; his father's was at one end next to his study, and his mother's was at the other end, close to Draco's room. There were some guest rooms in between that were never used except when his father's parents came for their once-in-a-decade visit. His Aunt Bella also stayed over sporadically, but she and Narcissa would sleep in Narcissa's second-floor bedroom.

Once he reached his mother's empty bedroom, he stuffed the clothes into the chest and left promptly, hoping not to get caught by his father. His mother, thank goodness, was out visiting with his Aunt Bella for the day.

As he quickly paced back towards his room, something caught Draco's attention; as he passed one of the guest rooms, he thought he heard someone sobbing. When he tried to open the door to investigate, he found the door was locked, which was odd because his mother never locked the guest rooms. Burning with curiosity, Draco rushed to his room and retrieved his wand. Upon returning, Draco, breathing heavily, muttered "_Alohomora_", and the door unlocked audibly. It was only a simple Locking Spell—quite elementary. Draco opened the door slowly.

Sitting on the guest bed was a small boy with dark hair and spectacles. He was presently staring in awe at Draco—he'd obviously heard the door unlock. Draco approached the bed and sat on it, leaving a few feet between him and the boy.

"Who are you?" Draco asked blankly.

"H— Harry Potter. Who are you?" His face was puffy from crying.

"I'm Draco Malfoy." Why was his father keeping a boy locked up in the guest room? Lucius had finally lost it. The two spent a moment looking at each other curiously.

"Has my father hurt you?" Draco asked. It was the first question that came to mind.

"Your . . . father?"

At this point, Draco was extremely curious. Harry seemed to be contemplating something, and then shook his head.

"My head hurts, and I don't know how I got here."

Had his father had modified this boy's memory? And to what extent? Draco knew his father had a strange fascination with memory modification spells. This situation was becoming more bizarre by the minute—

Draco heard footsteps coming up the stairs. He shot up, quickly pointed his wand towards the door, re-locked it, and leaped under the bed. About five seconds later, he heard the door unlock. He stared at the dark leather boots as they entered and tried not to breathe.

"Hello, Harry. I see you're awake." It was his father's soft, charming voice. He apparently conjured a chair, because Draco saw its legs appear from nowhere.

Silence.

"You still look a mite feverish, Harry. I thought you'd be awake by now, so I brought you some medicine. It will help with your fever."

"Fever . . ." muttered Harry. Harry did not seem sick before.

"Come now, Harry. You've been out of it long enough," Lucius said.

"I don't remember being sick . . . sir," Harry said weakly.

"Of course not. Wizards sick with Abyssinian Fever rarely remember their ordeal; in fact, they don't usually wake up until the final day of the sickness. It's a horrible disease, really—only two percent of young wizards get it, thankfully . . . now, take your medicine so we can get you out of bed."

Draco imagined Lucius smiling deceitfully. He could only imagine what was taking place above him. A cork popped, and a bottle was opened.

"There we go. All gone," Lucius said happily. "Now, Harry, I'm going to ask you some questions, being the amateur doctor that I am."—a forced chuckle from Lucius—"They pertain to your memory—see, Abyssinian Fever can, in one percent of cases, cause permanent memory loss. I'm only asking these questions to make sure this is not the case. Please answer honestly, and don't feel bad if you don't remember. So: Where are we, Harry?"

"I . . . I don't remember," answered Harry.

"I see. Do you remember my name?"

"No."

"Do you remember_ your_ name?"

"Yes. Harry Potter."

"Good, good." Lucius paused. "Do you remember me at all?"

"No . . . sorry."

"Well, Harry, I was afraid of this. It looks like the Fever has affected you more than I thought." Lucius sighed, quite realistically. Draco imagined him appearing distraught. "I guess . . . I guess the only thing I can do now is refresh your memory. Damn it! It was hard enough the first time, telling you."

Lucius paused.

"You see, Harry, for all intents and purposes, legally, I'm your father. Your parents died when you were very young, and your only immediate family was, and is, totally uninterested in you and your welfare. So, about two years ago, through a friend of mine in government, I learned of your situation and decided firmly, with my wife, to take you in as my own. For the past two years, I have been caring for you as I care for my own son."—Draco nearly vomited—"I recently started teaching you, also."

"Teaching me?" Harry said.

"Yes, Harry, in magic. You are a wizard, after all."

Silence again.

"I understand if this is all a shock to you. Imagine it from my perspective, having to tell my seven-year-old adopted son all the horrific details of his past—for the second time. It's quite hard on me, too. But"—Draco imagined his father placing a loving hand on Harry's shoulder—"I'm sure, together, we can get things back to normal. Agreed?"

Draco heard nothing, and therefore could only assume that Harry nodded silently.

"Good. Now, Harry," Lucius said, "I've brought you something. It's a memento from some good friends of the family, the Lestranges."

Uncle Rodolphus' family.

"I'd like you to take a look at it"—_pop_—"and tell me anything you feel," Lucius said.

There was a long silence, broken sporadically only by some heavy breathing sounds that Draco assumed came from Harry.

"Harry, tell me how you feel."

Silence.

"Harry."

Silence.

"Harry!"

Sounds of a struggle emanated from above Draco; suddenly, Harry began making a noise Draco could only describe as a cross between hissing and screaming; Lucius screamed in pain, then: "_STUPEFY_!"

Draco flinched as Harry's unconscious body fell to the floor with a _thud _no more thantwo feet away from him, next to the bed. His father picked up the boy by the armpits and laid him on the bed; Draco heard the springs squeaking under the weight. Draco heard some muttering from his father, which he hypothesized was Lucius erasing Harry's memory of the past few minutes.

His father disconjured the chair, and Draco saw his leather boots leave the room promptly. The door was locked again from the outside; footsteps descended the staircase.

Draco waited a few minutes, just to be safe, before popping out from under the bed. He saw Harry's unconscious body upon the bed, and he suddenly felt a sense of rage towards his father. Did Lucius expect him to just go along with this whole plan? He would obviously run into Harry eventually, unless his father planned to keep him locked in the guest room two doors down forever. No, Lucius would more likely modify his memory while he was sleeping or something, making him believe that Harry was his adopted brother for two years.

Draco approached the door and whispered, "_Alohomora_"; it unlocked audibly. He opened it cautiously, listening for any sound of his father. After hearing nothing but silence, he exited the room, shut the door, and relocked it.

He ran into his room and locked the door. His mother was coming home later that day; maybe she could explain what was going on.


	7. Avada Kedavra

**Chapter Six:_ Avada Kedavra_**

_Shit_, thought Lucius as he gazed into the mirror, blood dripping off his face and onto the bathroom floor. He recalled the events of the past hour.

He'd done well enough convincing the boy, after his memory modification, that he had been his guardian for the past two years, and that he'd forgotten it all due to some bullshit disease.

But, for once, things did not go according to plan. Harry had reacted very strangely to the cup, and the evidence was on Lucius' face: two long gashes were bleeding profusely below his right eye. Lucius could only describe Harry, holding the cup, as possessed; when he snatched the cup from his grasp, Harry attacked him like a wild animal.

In the end, a stupefication was necessary.

Lucius flicked out his wand and whispered "_curatio_"**;** he winced as the gashes were reduced to superficial red marks, which were still quite inflamed. It would take a while to heal completely, but this was all he could do for now.

At the very least, Harry's reaction to the Cup and Diary proved to Lucius that, firstly, Voldemort knew how to make horcruxes and had, in fact, done just that several times; and, secondly, that Harry himself had some sort of connection with the horcruxes.

Lucius, however, was dumbfounded as to why the Boy Who Lived had done just that—especially in the face of a terribly nasty Killing Curse. He knew of no such protective spell that could shield off such a powerful curse, or why the caster would vanish after using it. It was one mystery Lucius couldn't solve, and it bothered him constantly.

Lucius glanced once more into the bathroom mirror, hoping perhaps the wounds had healed in the two minutes he'd spent thinking. After all, he couldn't show himself right now to Narcissa and the boy; they'd ask where he got the gashes, and he'd have to waste time and energy making up a believable story for them. He thought of every spell he could, but he couldn't recall an anti-inflammatory jinx.

As he gazed into the mirror, Lucius was suddenly startled by a strange noise coming from behind him. Behind him, Lucius was shocked to see that his house-elf, Dobby, had appeared in the mirror. Lucius turned around to address his servant.

Dobby was covered in mud, his large eyes were bloodshot, and he was shaking. Lucius could tell he hadn't slept in weeks. In his hand he held a large, squirming snake by the head.

"So you've finally returned . . . with the Dark Lord in tow, I see."

"Yes, Master," Dobby said shakily, "Dobby searched high and low, he did. Three separate countries. Of course, it was not difficult to find as large a Dark energy as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, sir. Even in his weakened state, sir, Dobby did." Dobby feigned a grin.

"Drop him," Lucius commanded.

"But, sir, he is still very dangerous—"

"Dobby, you have two weeks' worth of chores to get done, and I suggest you get started right away. Now, _drop him_."

With a snap of his fingers, Dobby disapparated; consequently, the snake feel to the floor with a _thud_ and immediately rose to a defensive position, hissing and showing its fangs.

Lucius grinned to himself. "At last . . . I've finally found you, my Lord. My, you certainly have changed. You were once a terror whose dark aura could be felt miles away by any magical being. But look at you now—a mere _reptile_."

The snake hissed louder.

"Now, now, don't lose your head, my Lord. What are you going to do, bite me? I bet you didn't even possess a _poisonous _snake."

The snake struck forward, but Lucius managed to dodge; it hit the mirror, shattering it loudly.

"My Lord, I must commend you. Even in your unfortunate state, you have still managed to keep your short temper."

Lucius dodged another strike, and the snake hit the wall and fell to the floor, dazed.

"How does it feel for you, perhaps the most powerful wizard ever known, to have a simple Killing Curse utterly fail you and maim you so? To flee, in spirit, and hop from one living thing to the next, slowly sucking the life out of each one? In fact, with all the energy you're exerting trying to superficially wound your old servant you should be starting to feel more and more fatigued by the moment—"

The snake launched at Lucius, and, missing, hit the toilet, breaking several large chunks out of the porcelain. One landed on the snake's lower body; Lucius heard a crunch as the bones there were shattered. The snake seemed to scream out in pain; blood pooled on the tiled floor.

Lucius knelt down next to the Dark Lord. "Pinned down, I see," he said, glaring at the moaning snake as it tried, unsuccessfully, to free itself from the piece of porcelain. "You know, it's a shame you couldn't have a more dignified death, my Lord. You did teach me everything I know about the Dark Arts, after all. But, unfortunately, your schemes of revenge stand in the way of my plans. See, I plan to make Harry Potter my ally. That and the fact that I'm about to kill the wizard who nearly slayed the Boy Who Lived will be enough to grant me nearly unlimited power in the Wizarding World."

The Dark Lord screamed in agony.

"Don't worry, my Lord, I'll make it quick," said Lucius, standing. He flicked out his wand promptly and pointed it at the screeching snake.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Lucius shouted—and a large, green orb shot out lightning-fast from his wand and struck the Dark Lord in the head. The snake's whole body glowed red, began to convulse violently for a few moments, and then fell lifeless to the floor.

An obsidian mist rose from the corpse's gaping eyes and mouth; almost instantly, Lucius felt an agonizing burning sensation on his forearm. Forced to the floor and screaming in pain, he lifted his sleeve to reveal his Dark Mark burning, blood-red, off his arm. After a few moments, the blackness of the skull-and-snake was gone, leaving only a faint scar behind.

Lucius sat, breathing heavily, in the bathroom floor, the dead body of the Dark Lord only a few feet away from him. He used a Summoning Charm to call Victor; within a few minutes, the manservant arrived at the bathroom, his mouth agape.

"Victor," said Lucius softly, "prepare a bonfire in the south garden—quickly. I'll join you shortly."

"Yes, master." He nodded and sauntered off.

Lucius rose slowly, and, grasping his arm, walked to his bedroom and retrieved a large cloth sack. Returning to the washroom, he stuffed the Dark Lord's corpse in the sack and promptly apparated to his basement vault; there, he retrieved the Cup and Diary, putting one in his free hand and stuffing the other under his arm. He apparated again: this time to the south garden.

There, standing in front of him, was Victor; he had retrieved about a dozen logs of firewood from the conservatory and set fire to them. The blaze reached over six feet in the air.

"Ah, it's ready for you, sir," said Victor, eyeing Lucius' load.

"Leave me," muttered Lucius. Victor nodded and walked towards the manor, leaving Lucius alone. The sun was setting, and it was beginning to get quite chilly; the cold air burned the scar on Lucius' arm. Remembering what he was here to do, Lucius laid his sack and the Cup on the lawn and threw the Diary in the fire. He watched as the pages were engulfed; the flames emitted a dark, black smoke. Lucius thought he heard a faint scream.

Next, he hoisted the Cup and hurled it into the fire; within a minute, the metal was melting and the black smoke grew thicker.

Finally, Lucius grabbed Voldemort's reptilian corpse out of the sack. Holding it by the head, he spoke weakly:

"You could have done it all, my Lord. But, alas, you were foiled by an infant. And it is for that reason you had to be destroyed."

He tossed the snake into the fire and watched as the flames melted the Dark Lord's flesh. The black smoke covered the whole yard now, bringing with it a putrid stench.

_Thus, the greatest Dark Wizard the world has ever known dies like an animal._

Though he knew his work was not yet done, Lucius was calm.


End file.
